Words For Thoughts
by Konstantya
Summary: Only Austria would still manage to use precise speech when drunk. AustriaxHungary.


**General Note:** I'm only going to reformat my fics so much when this site is the one at fault. So If the formatting is weird (like, say, there _aren't any scene breaks where there should be_), please check out my profile for more info. Thank you.

A/N: First (posted) Hetalia fic (w00t). Set sometime in the 1700s, let's say, when Hungary is still a servant.

Obligatory (but ultimately pointless) CYA: I don't own it.

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**Words For Thoughts**

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_"This is one of the disadvantages of wine; it makes a man mistake words for thoughts."  
—Samuel Johnson_

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In an estate as large as the Holy Roman Empire's, with so many people living and employed there, it wasn't completely out of the ordinary to hear someone walking about the place at night, getting a cup of tea from the kitchens, going out to relax on the terraces, or just generally being a nocturnal sort of person. Hungary had always been a light sleeper, and it also wasn't completely out of the ordinary for her to be woken by any number of small noises.

It _was,_ however, completely out of the ordinary for Hungary to be woken by someone crawling into bed with her.

"What the hell?" she blurted out, bolting straight up. During times of emotional anxiety—like the panic she was now experiencing, for example—she had a tendency to revert to the crude language of her youth. It was also times like these she wished she still slept with a frying pan under her pillow.

A tired groan came as the response.

There was something familiar about the timbre of that groan, and she fumbled to light the candle at her bedside. Shaken and still trying to fully wake up, she turned back around to her intruder and practically had a heart attack.

"Mr. Austria!" It came out as more of an alarmed hush than anything else, pure shock causing her voice to rise to the shriller pitches.

He, himself, sat up with a bit of effort. Blinked at her. Narrowed his eyes in confusion. "Hungary," he said, and she could smell the wine on his breath. "Why are you in my bed? It's not proper behavior for a young lady such as yourself." Only Austria would still manage to use precise speech when drunk. And why was he drunk in the first place?

"No! _My_ bed!" she managed to get out, clutching her sheets close to her chest, covering her chemise. "Why are _you_ in _my_ bed?" He'd discarded his glasses, boots, coat, waistcoat, and cravat in the general proximity of her chair, and he looked strangely simple, sitting in front of her in his white shirt, the top couple buttons undone. Why that last detail surprised her so much, she didn't know—surely he didn't _sleep_ all impeccably buttoned up (though, Austria being Austria, she wouldn't have put it past him).

He blinked again, and his confusion became so severe it almost looked like he was scowling. "That is what I said."

"No! You, Austria, are in _my_ bed!" He didn't seem to be getting it. "This is not your room!"

He apparently let that process, because after a beat of silence, he turned his head to take in his surroundings. "Ah," he said. There was another pause, and then he went on. "Well. This is my house…and this room is located within my house…so therefore this _is_ my room," he finished rather triumphantly. "And this is my bed!" he added before she could counter him. "I own it; it's mine."

A sigh of the disbelieving sort pushed out of her and made her shoulders slump. She leaned on one arm and tried to think of how she could get him out of there. Logic had obviously not worked—or, more precisely, had backfired—and if his collection of removed clothing was any indication, he was quite comfortable where he was.

She had been so lost in thought for a moment that she practically jumped when she felt his fingers at the flowered clasp in her hair, and batted his hand away on nervous reflex. "Don't mess with Lake Balaton!" she practically squeaked, flustered, feeling her heart leap back to its quickened pace.

"But you wear it even while you sleep. I never knew…" and he trailed off distantly. He had leaned closer in curiosity, or maybe he was just so off-balance from the alcohol that he couldn't sit up straight. Either way, Hungary found the proximity embarrassing and unnerving.

"You know, technically…" he said, and it was a low murmur that ghosted over her ear and made her breath audibly catch.

Her body sent an urgent dispatch to her brain, requesting information on how to deal with a drunk, assertive Austria. Her brain sent a reply back, saying it had no data on that particular subject and couldn't be of any help, sorry.

"Technically…" he repeated, soft and close, "…Lake Balaton is mine, too."

"Um," she said. It was an eloquent response.

"…And this," he murmured, softer still, right before he put his lips to her temple, and her cheeks wholly lit themselves on fire as her entire body froze. "…And this." Barely a whisper now, and a light brush over the skin below her ear, sending lightning down her spine, and her fingers involuntarily fisted in the sheet. His hand slid down her arm, lazily tugging her sleeve with it, baring her shoulder. "…And…"

And then his cheek hit her shoulder, asleep.

Hungary didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

In any event, she spent the rest of the night trying to sleep on the floor, and not having much luck with it. That had less to do with the thin rug and more to do with the fact that she couldn't get her blood to slow down.

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The next morning saw Hungary carrying a tea tray into her room with determined optimism. She set it on the small desk beside her doorway and proceeded to pull back the drapes for the day. With the burst of sunlight into the room, the figure in the bed shifted, and she took that as her cue.

"Good morning, Mr. Austria," she greeted.

Austria cracked his eyes open and let out a sound of pure anguish.

"I brought you a big glass of water and some plain tea, if you're feeling up to it," she went on, taking care to keep her voice quiet, but brisk. She smiled at her professionalism.

As she pulled the rest of the drapes back, Austria fought to sit up, almost reeling back down once he did so. He pushed the hair back from his eyes and gripped his forehead, and she could practically see the gears in his head grind to a halt.

"Hungary," he said, with a calm patience that was expertly laid over any alarm he might have been experiencing, "why am I in your bed?"

Though the wording was not exactly the same, it still gave her a sense of déjà vu and successfully put her in mind of the night before. She firmly told her cheeks not to blush, and they promptly ignored her like rebellious teenagers. "You, uh…insisted it was yours, sir."

"Oh, dear."

_Quite,_ thought Hungary.

Surreptitiously, he seemed to take stock of his clothing, and though the expression was subdued, she could tell he was relieved to find he was still wearing his pants. With that taken care of, he immediately set to buttoning up the rest of his shirt, wincing all the way at the ache in his head.

Hungary concentrated wholly on the mundane act of pouring tea. It helped.

"Ah…did I…? That is…I mean, uh…nothing h-ha…?" It was rare he was at such a loss for words, and despite everything, she had to admit it was very cute. Especially when coupled with the pink tinge in his cheeks.

Oh. She was blushing again.

She shook her head, getting the gist of what he was trying to ask. "U-um…no, sir. You did seem…a little worried about your grammar, though."

"Huh," was his curious and rather uncharacteristic response. He pulled back the covers and swung his legs to the side of the bed, wincing again. A thought struck him, and he looked at her again. "Ah…where did _you_ sleep?"

"On the floor," she said brightly.

Guilt seemed to overpower embarrassment, and he dropped his head into his hand. Resolutely, he stood, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he spoke, it was not with his carefully metered stoicism, but with genuine sincerity. "Hungary, I'm so very sorry about all of this."

She actually giggled, hoping it didn't sound too mad. "It wasn't that bad." Thank goodness it was an ambiguous truth. She wasn't a very good liar, especially not when already nervous.

He didn't say anything, and instead reached for his clothes—that now sat, neatly, at the end of the bed. "I will never allow statesmen to foist that much wine upon me ever again," he vowed to himself in a dull mutter, pushing his feet into his boots. "I don't care who's getting married." He slid on only his coat and glasses, then took the water she had brought and drank it with all the desperate speed of one who was severely dehydrated.

She was moderately surprised he hadn't taken the time to get fully dressed (Austria probably considered even _bathing_ indecent, since one had to be naked to do so, at least with any efficiency). But hangovers were, she supposed, powerful things.

He replaced the glass, gathered the rest of his clothes, walked toward the open door, drew himself up very officially, and bravely faced her. "Hungary, I…thank you for your understanding. I'll take the tea with me, lest I…trouble you any more. I'm…deeply sorry for all this. Rest assured, it will never happen again."

There was no doubt about it this time: Hungary was disappointed.

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A/N: Christ, Austria's such a gentleman, I almost can't handle it. ;P

This is the most light-hearted thing I've written in a _very_ long time, but it was a lot of fun. And a nice break from the other angsty, dramatic, history-ridden Hetalia fics I've got in the works. ^_^ Hope you enjoyed it.


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